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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122522">innocent burgundy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan'>manhattan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Byleth: Ride or Die, Catharsis, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Love In Times of War and Madness, Minor Character Death, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Relationship, Standing By Your Angsty Dimitri: For Dummies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:14:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Dimitri was once expectant— eyes bright to the point of painting a warm line on the back of her neck— now he is callous, bearing a cruelty as finely manufactured as her relic. She wonders which one cuts smoother every time Dimitri ignores her, or berates her, or hurts her without a touch.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>118</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>innocent burgundy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i finished the BL route and dimitri/byleth kicked my ass behind a dennys</p><p>please enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dimitri has always been tall. Tall in a straight-backed way, in a princely way, in an overexerting way. Byleth knows— Byleth knew— that upon hearing the cadence of his steps, the tempo of his walk, that she would have to angle her jaw just so to face him properly.</p><p>"Professor," he would say, all polite inflection and neutral airs, but it somehow always felt like he was tugging on the end of her sleeve. He would try to hide it, that ache to be noticed, and he would fail, but be all the more endearing for it.</p><p>She has only realized now, the way she trained to welcome his voice, his steps, because it is no longer a seamless transition. Where once her eyes met his in a smooth motion, now her gaze barely even strokes the mark: an arrow shot too far, too soon, piercing the furthest possible inch of the target.</p><p>Dimitri is taller, now. Bigger, too. Big in an intimidating way, in a monstrous way, in an overbearing way. He is so big, Byleth thinks, constantly, constantly, and her neck strains under her stubborn ways as she looks him in the eyes, always. Even when the practiced roll of her eyes lands on his chin, first, a jaw that looks almost like what she expects, but never does.</p><p>And, of course, now he does not call to her. He doesn't even look back; she is not Edelgard, which means she is beneath his notice. Where Dimitri was once expectant— eyes bright to the point of painting a warm line on the back of her neck— now he is callous— bearing a cruelty as finely manufactured as her relic. She wonders which one cuts smoother every time Dimitri ignores her, or berates her, or hurts her without a touch. The hatred on his face, it's—</p><p>It is a good thing her emotions never muster enough strength to shape her expression, she thinks for once. Not out of concern for herself, but for him, when he returns to his senses. Dimitri has things to atone for— will have more, by the end of the war. Byleth's injured feelings will not be a part of them.</p><p>A kingdom, in blood, is heavy enough.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Five years of war and hatred and abandonment take their toll on Dimitri.</p><p>It becomes apparent in the way that he lags behind the others on the field, the end of his lance like a plow through the mud, or maybe dotting the grass like a walking stick. The fur on his back like a cancerous growth, weighing him down instead of comforting him, all matted knots where it presses against the sweat on his neck.</p><p>He used to carry his armor, his weapons, like they weighed nothing. He was tireless in his pursuit of adversaries, running after bandits and monsters with wide steps and a perfect form. Now he is weak, and he slouches, and the energy behind his blows is composed only of revenge.</p><p>Now he is weak. But not enough that they can force him into the nursery. So the thankless task of cajoling him is a hot potato, bouncing from hand to hand. Mercedes is the first to try, after a battle that runs them all haggard. Sylvain, after, with a scathing addition by Felix. Manuela, and Annette, and even Flayn, all rebuffed. Ingrid is the last, and Dimitri's refusal gives way into an angry shouting match that empties out the church.</p><p>"I can't get through to him," Ingrid says, and her voice is low, like the subject at hand will shatter if approached the wrong way. Maybe it will. "I don't think anyone can, really. I'd thought maybe," and here she sighs, looking askance at Byleth, "maybe you could, Professor. But now, I'm not sure."</p><p>It would have to be Dedue, Byleth knows. Once, she might've managed too, but now ... Well. Byleth takes upon herself to hold the hot potato once it has no new hands to burn. She must, now. There is no one else.</p><p>Ingrid's hand squeezes around hers before it falls, and Byleth wishes she could hold onto that warmth for just a little longer. But time waits for no one, and so she trudges on towards the cathedral, a worn path that, by now, she could walk with her eyes closed.</p><p>"Go away," Dimitri says, without turning.</p><p>He, too, knows how to identify her through her steps. How else would he know? He hasn't looked at her since that fateful day in the monastery. Not truly, at least.</p><p>"Dimitri," she says, over his shoulder, but her voice sinks into the fur instead of bouncing through the cathedral's corners. Has she ever felt this insignificant before?</p><p>His replying silence is as cold as it is deafening. He does not even flinch as she steps around him, eyes on his, her neck arching to allow it— but his throat bobs as he swallows, and the lines on his face grow deeper.</p><p>Dimitri's anger will double with every attempt she makes.</p><p>"You need to take better care of yourself," Byleth says, and her voice is harder than she thought it would be. "Please," she tacks on, feeling awkward. "If not for us, then to ensure your revenge."</p><p>He tenses when she reaches into her jacket, fingers closing around Manuela's parcel of poultices and supplements, and she doesn't pretend to not notice. She is well-versed in battles, too, and she doesn't plan on losing this one. Let him fear her— at least let him feel something for her.</p><p>Dimitri's eye flits from the ruins to the parcel. He looks as if he is trying to decide the best way to refuse it without addressing her, so Byleth advances, kneels— sets it on the ground, careful as can be, and looks up at him once more. With purpose, as always. Defiantly, this time.</p><p>Between the two of them, the air is charged with volatility. She considers this carefully— the way his eye darkens, the way his gloves stretch mutely as he closes his hands, the color on his face— and then rises, walks away with a purposefully unaffected gait.</p><p>Dedue would have waited. Dedue would have waited and watched Dimitri until he was certain Dimitri had complied.</p><p>Byleth feels liquid and too-warm, a vat of churning oil under a lit match, and she waits until she is in her quarters to open and close her hands, feeling them shake with the need to— she needs—</p><p>The next day, Dimitri is gone. So is the parcel.</p><p>Byleth tempers her worry with a training sword and Felix, and neither of them mention any golden-haired princes, or the lives they want to exchange for death.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The day after Dedue returns, Byleth's body gives out in relief, finally sure that Dimitri will not run, that she can rest without fear of waking to an empty cathedral.</p><p>It is not an easy slumber. She wakes several times, damp and limp and thirsty, a fog of half-dreams and nightmares broiling in her skull. Her father's face, his blade, then Dimitri, so young, his smile, his gloved hand, then his eyes, his eye, his grip around her neck, and she's drawing breath with an open mouth, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>Judging by the color of the sun as it filters into her room, dawn has long since passed. No one has come to wake her, and so she's on her feet and pulling on her clothes, and if she had a heart—</p><p>"Professor," Dedue exclaims, as much as he is able to without raising his voice. His hand is poised to knock on a door which is no longer there.</p><p>"Dedue," Byleth greets, grabbing the handle. "Can I help you?"</p><p>For a second, he looks taken aback— perhaps Byleth still wears her dreams on her face, however unlikely that may be. Then Dedue presents her with a wrapped cloth, and a pitcher of tea.</p><p>"I made breakfast," he explains. "I saved you a meal."</p><p>Whatever pastry it is, it is still warm, even through the dishcloth. And soft, it is so soft that she must hold it carefully for fear of squishing it.</p><p>"Thank you," Dedue says, and five years ago he would probably avert his gaze, but he is a different man, now, he has seen and lived and he is back with his peers, his prince. His gaze is sure, piercing, warm like the cake in her hands. "For keeping His Highness safe."</p><p>Byleth only shakes her head, feeling hollow. She cannot stand thinking of Dimitri as he is, mad with grief, lonely, running to meet his death. She cannot stand thinking that she enables his behavior so as to not risk losing him completely.</p><p>But Dedue presses the meal closer to her, his hands gentle, his eyes sure. Does he know? Does he know how selfish she is, how shameless?</p><p>Five years ago, she would've asked him to come inside, sit, and share with her a cup of tea. Now she watches him stride across the lawn and disappear into a corner, and by the time she pours a cup the custard pie has already gone cold.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Rodrigue dies for his king, and Dimitri apologizes on a clear night, as the moon looks over the monastery.</p><p>She has no meaningful words to say, can't think of how to begin for fear she would not be able to finish, so she holds his hand for two seconds more than what is proper.</p><p>They let go at the same time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The aftermath is serene. A battlefield's quiet.</p><p>Crows and other birds make their descent, feasting upon the Empire's dead flesh, and Byleth watches it all from the palace's gardens. The fountains are still flowing, pink foam cresting at the edges and cascading, like falling clouds, into the grass.</p><p>Annette presses her hands into Felix's arm while Mercedes wipes her forehead, palms sticky with his blood. His eyes are hard— what does he see, inside his head, inside his grief— but his shoulders are relaxed, and so Byleth keeps her distance.</p><p>She is needed elsewhere, anyway.</p><p>At the end of the hallway, legs folded, Dimitri curls tighter into his cloak. His lance drips still into the fine carpets, burgundy where once was gold. And Edelgard sleeps, now, chest still under the sheet. Her hair curls from beneath, as pale as the winter sun, and it was only—it feels like weeks before— that Edelgard was smirking and holding Byleth's hand, a firm grip before their mock battle.</p><p>Dimitri looks small in the height of the room, in its darkening depth— the sconces have gone unlit for lack of servants. Like a prostrating sinner, or like a repentant believer, she doesn't know.</p><p>"Professor," Dimitri says, and keeps his gaze on the uncovered stone floor.</p><p>Byleth sits at his side without being invited. There are only inches between their hips, but his armor is cool now that the heat of battle has dissipated, and Byleth wonders, briefly, if she will ever feel warm again.</p><p>"There's much to do," Dimitri says, and fiddles with the end of the carpet, curling the threads, pulling. "I ... Where to even begin?"</p><p>"We rest," Byleth says, before he really gets into it.</p><p>Dimitri's answering laugh is worn-out, but clean.</p><p>"Of course, my friend," he chuckles, and he looks young again. He is young. If only for today, while the adrenaline and victory don't leave his body. "You are right, as always."</p><p>Silence overtakes them. Outside, people sing, and shout, and laugh, and cry, and it's like the war never happened. If Byleth closed her eyes, she could be back at the monastery, and the voices of her students, the merchants, the villagers— they would all seep in through the stone.</p><p>Maybe in another life.</p><p>"I had never been to the Empire," Byleth says. "It's a beautiful place."</p><p>"It is," Dimitri agrees, gazing through the high windows of the throne room. A lazy cloud hovers in the sky, passing by gently, so gently. "Some call it the capital of culture of Fódlan. In the warmer seasons, artists, singers, and scientists from all over Fódlan would travel here. I was going to— I thought I would visit once Edelgard became Emperor."</p><p>Byleth is only too aware of that curl of hair, glowing white in the sun, lying still. They will have to bury her. They will have to bury many more.</p><p>"I suppose I did, in the end," Dimitri whispers.</p><p>Byleth leans over to fetch his hand. Her fingers slip beneath the metal, open the latch, and it echoes like a dull bell once the gauntlet hits the stone. It falls open like his hand is, but— she assumes— colder. Dimitri is warm, though, and the dry skin of his calluses is only a reminder of how much he's had to endure, and she loves him.</p><p>"Prof— Byle—" he stutters, even as his hungry grip betrays him, even as his fingers curl and overtake hers, palms together.</p><p>She is pleased, perhaps viscerally, to notice he still has enough blood in him to blush. And it suits him so, this human facet, that she finds that she cannot look away.</p><p>"Byleth," she coaxes.</p><p>It has never stuck with the others, but—</p><p>"Byleth," Dimitri says, and his voice is soft, quiet.</p><p>"Dimitri," she replies, and holds tight.</p><p>The sun slowly makes its way into the edge of the world, darkening from orange to blood-red. Inside the throne room, outside in the gardens, the world fades into innocent burgundy for a time.</p>
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